Awake and Alive
by VolceVoice
Summary: The team is targeted by an unknown organization that views them as a possible threat to their plans.  Talk about your self-fulfilling prophecy . . .  Sequel to "If It's Worth Saving Me" and "If Today Was Your Last Day."  With a dog, for bprice.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay—so I promised bprice a story about six months ago, and she's been really, **_**really**_** patient while I worked through my newfound Sherlock obsession.**

**And I know the first thing she's going to say after she reads this first bit is, "Where's the dog?"**

**He's on the way, Bron. I swear.**

**This is a sequel to "If it's Worth Saving Me" and "If Today was Your Last Day," so if this chapter is a bit confusing, I would suggest reading "Saving Me" first.**

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Leverage, TNT, or the characters of that show. I also mean no disrespect to the producers, writers, or actors.**_

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><p>Eliot hadn't seen this coming.<p>

He reeled back under the impact of an expert kick to the ribs, but managed to block the next one, grabbing an ankle and dumping its elegantly dressed owner to the concrete floor just in time to drive his elbow up and back into the throat of the thug approaching him from behind.

He turned to deal an uppercut that knocked the unlucky man cold before whipping around to see the martial artist execute a perfect kip-up and try again. Eliot spun out of the way at the last second and administered an insulting boot to the seat of the man's expensive slacks as he passed.

There was a crash and deafening clatter as his opponent stumbled into a display of metal garbage cans full of unfinished closet rods, sending them everywhere. The man came up wielding a six-foot rod like a bō staff. He straightened his lavender silk tie and smiled.

Eliot picked up a shorter rod as it rolled past and backed up into the main aisle to give himself room, taking a moment to wonder what the hell he'd walked into.

He hadn't expected trouble—he'd only dropped into DIYer's to pick up a length of baseboard for Nate's kitchen because he knew it wouldn't occur to Parker to repair the stuff she damaged and Hardison, who had given her the damn roller skates in the first place, was at some kind of nerd convention in Chicago.

He'd been so focused on getting in, getting out, and getting on with the repairs that he hadn't suspected a damn thing until the first of the three thugs tried to tackle him.

That ticked him off more than the unprovoked attack—that he'd been caught unaware. Had he really been dumb enough to relax his guard after taking down the worst of his personal boogeymen? That was death-level stupid for someone like him.

Sure, most of his private worries—about the team's safety, about his own survival—had disappeared along with Moreau's fortune. Nate was off the hook, the team was intact, and he'd found some closure. Things could finally get back to normal.

But _normal_ didn't mean _safe _and _worst_ didn't mean _only._

"Mind telling me what I did to piss you off?" he growled, as the last thug standing stalked after him.

Silk Tie smirked, spinning the makeshift bō as if he knew what he was doing. "Have you upset so many, Mr. Spencer, that you can't remember them all?" His words were colored by a faint accent Eliot couldn't quite place.

Eliot stood his ground and centered himself. "Goes with the territory."

"But now you're trespassing on ours. Not smart."

"What? Who the hell are—"

The man charged.

Eliot countered a flurry of blows until his opponent's weapon snapped down, splintering his own in half. He threw the pieces aside and dodged another strike. This guy was a pro—he wasn't going let Eliot close enough to disarm him without making him permanently regret he'd tried.

Time to try something else.

Eliot snatched random items from the shelves and flung them at the advancing threat: a birdcage, a house sign, a flurry of banister spheres. Most were batted away, though a few scored direct hits, halting his attacker for a second or two.

His phone beeped—three short, three long, three short. Only ten people in the world knew the number that activated that ringtone. But they were going to have to wait.

Eliot hurled several pointed finials like rapid-fire darts and glanced around for something more substantial. Like pint cans of wood stain.

That would work.

He gathered an armful and aimed low to draw the other man's defense to his knees, one-two-three-four—and on five, the last can few straight at Silk Tie's unprotected head.

The rod snapped up to block ,but Eliot had already slipped down a side row, running as silently as he could and making a few twists and turns before finding a niche where he could catch his breath. It wouldn't take much effort to get away—this place was a rabbit warren, not a killbox—but he wanted answers. Far as he knew, he hadn't personally crossed anyone in Boston, though _territory_ could mean damned near anything. . .

His phone beeped again and he yanked his Bluetooth out of his pocket and stuck it in his ear—not as good as an earbud, but it kept his hands free. "This had better be an emergency," he growled.

"_It is."_

"Not a good time, Dougie."

_"Sorry. But it's bad, Uncle Spencer. I need help."_

Dougie wasn't a hysterical kid. Bad to him was a damn sight worse than wrecking the apartment while his parents and little sister were out of town visiting Grandma. And he hadn't played the _Uncle Spencer_ card since his voice had changed.

"Where are you?"

"_Boston General."_

"You hurt?"

_"No, not much. But Parker—"_

"Not _much_?" Jo was going to go ballistic. "If _Parker_ took you to a hospital-"

"_No." _Dougie's voice was flat. "_The ambulance took _her_."_

_"_Accident?"

"_No. And all I've got to keep her safe is a Taser and a call button to the nurses' station."_

He cursed under his breath. "Call Nate."

"_I _tried—_right after I called you the first time.__ His phone's off and so is Sophie's."_

Eliot saw a flicker of movement through the open shelves in front of him and slid out of his hiding place, moving quietly in the opposite direction as Silk Tie. "Sit tight and keep trying. I'll be there soon as I can."He ended the call and muted his phone, but left his earpiece in, just in case.

Time to get end this.

He turned a corner, and another, and found himself in an aisle full of unfinished furniture legs. Hefting one that ended in a large block of wood, Eliot went still, listening.

Up ahead—soft footsteps, moving _away_ from his position.

He bared his teeth and went hunting.

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

Eliot charged into the hospital, moving too quickly for the automatic doors. He shoved them out of his way, not caring about the whining gears—he'd already broken every possible speed limit to get here, he wasn't about to slow down now.

"Spencer!" Dougie appeared in front of him, in that way he and Parker both had. The relief on his face made him look younger than sixteen.

"You okay?" Eliot gave the kid a once over. His white t-shirt looked like he'd been rolling around on fresh blacktop, but except for the butterfly bandage over one eye, he looked all right.

"I'm fine—a little road rash. But Par—_Alice_ is still out." Dougie took in a shaky breath and lowered his voice. "She _fell,_ Spencer. _Parker_ _fell._ They cut her lines and she couldn't . . . We weren't _doing_ anything!"

"Who're _they_?"

Dougie shook his head and Eliot squeezed his shoulder. "Where is she? The ICU?"

"No, this way." Dougie led him to the elevators. He moved stiffly, without his usual easy grace, and Eliot thought he might have some injuries under his shirt. "They just moved her to the second floor."

"You left her alone?" Never a good idea with Parker, but if the team was being targeted . . .

Dougie shook his head. "Mike showed up twenty minutes ago—Mom called him. She and Dad are already on the road, but it's a thirteen-hour drive. And Hardison is on his way to the airport."

"Good." Eliot hit the elevator button. "What's the story?" Dougie would have one—he hadn't grown up surrounded by grifters and thieves for nothing.

"Hit and run—She shoved me out of the way. Alice White is my Dad's cousin, and you're Spencer Dermott—Mom's brother." He grimaced. "Hope that's okay. I drew a complete blank and I couldn't remember if Hardison burned David Spencer."

"We'll make it work. Did you get Nate?"

"Yeah, finally. He's picking up Sophie." The elevator doors opened and Dougie bumped into a waiting nurse. He flinched back and apologized, edging past.

Eliot followed, sure now that the kids was hiding some kind of damage. Might not be deliberate—adrenaline was a powerful painkiller. Until it wore off.

Dougie wasn't moving any easier by the time he stopped by a closed door. He knocked shave-and-a-haircut before opening it. "It's us," he said, swinging the door wide to show a compact, muscular man with a bleached buzz cut standing guard between the hospital bed and the door.

Mike gave each of them a sharp glance before grinning, showing two gold teeth and a brand new incisor. "'Bout time. What kept ya?"

"Not sure yet. Thanks for picking up the slack, man."

"Slack. Right." He glanced at the hospital bed and his expression went grim. "Think I'll stick around until Jo gets here—maybe longer."

"Fine by me." If a five-time mixed-martial arts champion was willing to pull bodyguard duty, Eliot wasn't going to turn him down—especially since it freed him to go after the bastards who'd done this.

He moved to the end of the bed and looked at Parker. Her face was pale except for the dark smudges under her closed eyes, a trace of a bruise on one cheek. She was absolutely still—only the beeping machines told him she was still breathing.

It was so _wrong_ to see her like this—even when napping, boneless as a cat, Parker seemed to keep one eye open and aware, her unpredictable energy ready and waiting, just beneath the surface. But he couldn't see a trace of it now.

He heard his knuckles crack before he realized he'd clenched his hands into fists.

He heard a soft shave-and-a-haircut at the door and didn't bother to turn around. He was too busy fighting the urge to go back to DIYer's and burn the place to the ground. If these sons-of-bitches didn't want him trespassing, they'd picked the wrong way to convince him.

"Eliot?" said Sophie. "Is she—Oh, _Parker_." She rushed past, dressed in her version of weekend casual, more Saks than sweats, but her makeup was minimal and her hair was less than perfect, as if she'd dropped everything and ran without checking a mirror first. "Oh, my God," she said, reaching out to smooth back the blond hair. "She's always so _careful _with her equipment—what happened?"

"She was doing rig tests on the Hancock," said Dougie, "And—"

"The _Hancock?_" said Nate, from the door. He'd closed it behind him, but didn't step any further into the room. "The tallest building in Boston? In the middle of the day?"

"_Yes,_ the tallest building in Boston in the middle of the day." The kid started to run a frustrated hand through his sandy hair, but hissed and lowered his arm. "It's tall enough for sudden-stop stress tests and the sun and the mirrors blind people inside and out. She uses the far side so the ends aren't obvious, but people will still be around if things go wrong—except they _didn't_ go wrong. Someone cut her lines."

Nate rubbed his chin. "And you're sure it didn't just snap?"

Eliot shook his head, but Dougie beat him to it.

"Of course I'm sure—she was wearing three safeties! Parker takes a lot of risks, but she _never_ takes chances with untested equipment and there aren't any decent handholds on that side of the building, not even for someone like her. The redundant line went first, which was weird, but then the second went, and she started zipping down as fast as she could, but then the other two let go . . ." He swallowed. "She was three floors up."

Nate said a very bad word, looking as if he wished hospital rooms had wet bars.

"Why didn't she break every bone in her body?" asked Sophie.

Dougie started to speak, but then moved his shoulders in a small shrug. "She knows how to fall."

"Still . . ."

"Did you see who did it?"

Dougie shook his head. "I was on the ground—All I saw were the lines dropping, and then . . . " He shuddered.

Sophie pulled him into a hug, but he gasped and struggled away. "Dougie?"

"That's it," said Eliot. He took two steps and yanked up the kid's t-shirt. "Holy—" The kid's entire torso was a riot of color, mostly red, purple, and black. "What the _hell_ happened to you? You said you were on the _ground_."

"I _was_." Dougie stepped back and pulled down his shirt. "It looks easier when you guys catch her."

Mike whistled. "Geez, kid, maybe that's because we outweigh her by a hundred pounds each. And she's usually aiming for us on purpose."

Eliot stared at him. "You know that's the second dumbest thing you've ever done, right?"

Dougie's chin went up. "What was the first?"

"Telling me you were okay. You're not—you've got at least a couple cracked ribs, if they aren't broken. You don't lie to me about stuff like this. Ever. And you probably lied to your mama, too."

"Well, _yeah._"

Eliot shook his head, though he couldn't blame the kid. Jo wasn't an overprotective parent— though if anyone had an excuse, she did—but she did tend to go dangerous when her children were hurt, and a thirteen-hour car ride wouldn't help her temper any.

"Sophie, take Dougie down to the emergency room and get him X-rayed, please," said Nate.

"Right you are," said Sophie. "Come on—we'd better document the injuries _before_ your mother gets hold of you. You can tell me the cover story on the way."

"Hey kid," said Eliot.

Dougie paused at the door. "Yeah?"

"Second dumbest . . . but third bravest."

The kid smiled. "Yeah? What were the first two?"

"You can think about that while you get your ribs wrapped."

Sophie shooed Dougie out the door and shut it behind them.

"Damn," said Mike, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. "He probably saved her life."

"Yeah," said Nate. "Let's hope no one saw him do it."

"Cover story's a hit and run . . . police are gonna be sniffing around."

"I'll call Bonanno." Nate pulled out his phone.

"Wait—ask him about this guy." He pulled Silk Tie's wallet out of his jacket and tossed it to Nate. "He and two other guys ambushed me—this one called me by name and said I was trespassing on someone else's territory. Thought it might be my own problem. Now I don't."

Nate opened it, pulled out the ID, and frowned before going through the rest.

"Whose territory?" asked Mike.

"He couldn't say." Anything. "But I get the idea they think we're a threat to whatever they've got going on."

Nate's gaze shifted to Parker and stuck, his blue eyes hardening. "Well. They're right about that."

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><p><strong>Before any Bostonians point this out, I know there's no Boston General. I made it up in case I need to mess with it later. There's also no DIYer's, which is good because the service there is <em>terrible.<em>**

**And I also know that the stabilizers on the 58****th**** floor would make it difficult to attach jump lines to the observation deck of the Hancock—which is closed to the general public, but that's a **_**good**_** thing here. Parker **_**could**_** attach her lines to the stabilizers without much trouble, but I thought it was unlikely that our bad guys would be able to cut them without wrinkling their nice suits. **

**Research. It is fun!**

**But reviews, they are even better. Just sayin'.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed and alerted and has been waiting patiently (mostly) for an update**—**I apologize for the long delay! **

**I do try for at least one new chapter a week, but I went to a long, intensive out-of-town conference right after posting the opening chapter and have been playing catch up ever since. But things should be back to normal now. Whatever that might be.**

_**Please note:**_** in this version of the Leverageverse, earbuds can be turned on and off without removing them. I needed 'em that way for the first story and (speaking as someone who misplaces small objects on an hourly basis) I think they would be more convenient that way. **

**(and still no dog. Sorry, Bron. But all in good time. S/he will be an important part of this!)**

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><p>Eliot sat in the visitor's chair and listened to the monitors. He and Parker were alone in the room—Mike was in the cafeteria, Sophie and Dougie hadn't come back, yet, and Nate had disappeared as soon as he could, probably to get a drink or three at the nearest bar.<p>

As long as the bar was crowded and he was working on a plan, Eliot didn't much care.

He rubbed his chin, exhaled, and leaned back. Two ruthless, improvised attacks on the same day. Maybe even by the same people—he'd bet Silk Tie had been on point for both. No warnings, no messages—these guys weren't interested in playing games.

But they hadn't gone after Nate, Sophie, or Hardison . . . or maybe he'd put a hitch in their evening plans by taking Silk Tie out of commission. Until he knew for sure, he'd assume they wanted the whole team out of the way. Permanently.

Why?

He growled under his breath and stood, moving to look at Parker. She didn't look like a master thief _or_ twenty pounds of crazy. She looked like an exhausted, innocent child—maybe the way she'd looked before all the foster homes and the abuse and that son of a bitch Archie Leach, who'd cared enough to give her skills but not enough to give her a family.

She had one now. And they weren't going to let her go without one hell of a fight.

"You ever gonna wake up?" he said, in the gruffest voice he could. "'Cause you know you're gonna be pissed if we take these guys down without you."

For a moment, he thought he saw that small wrinkle appear on her brow . . . but when he looked closer, it was gone. Must have been a—

Someone knocked, and Eliot was at the door before the fourth rap turned it into shave-and-a-haircut. "Yeah?"

"Eliot." The voice was not patient. "Open up, man."

He did. "You made good time," he said.

"Private jet and an embassy car," said Hardison, shoving his carryall and keffiyeh into Eliot's hands and reaching the hospital bed in four long strides. "Parker," he said. "It's me." He loosened his tie and took her hand in both of his. "Parker, I'm here."

Eliot tossed Hardison's bag into the visitor's chair and took his time securing the door with the rubber doorstops he'd grabbed on his way out of DIYer's for just that purpose—they probably wouldn't stop a determined person, but they'd slow them down some. When he'd fiddled enough for Hardison to say whatever private things he needed to say, he turned around and cleared his throat.

Hardison straightened. "What did the doctor say?"

"That's she's a lot better than she could be—'course, he thinks she was tossed by a car. If he knew what really happened, he'd call it a miracle. She's got a couple of stress fractures and some deep bone bruises. No signs of cranial damage or swelling so far. Her head didn't hit the ground, but the shock . . ." Eliot shook his head. "We're just waiting for her to wake up."

Hardison processed this, his right thumb making unconscious circles on Parker's wrist. "What the hell is going on? Dougie said someone dropped Parker off a building, but he didn't know who. Nate called when I was in the air, but all he said was that someone tried to take you on, too, and he had a name he wanted me to check. That name have something to do with this?" He lifted Parker's hand.

"Looks like." Eliot gave him what he knew about both attacks. "But he won't be trying anything soon."

"Good." A muscle worked in Hardison's jaw and Eliot was reminded that the younger man was dangerous in his own right. "You think they'll send someone else to finish the job?"

"Yeah—on all of us. We're gonna have to find a safehouse."

"Not without Parker."

Eliot shook his head. "We can't risk moving her right now—no, _listen_. She'll never be alone—Mike Tagiter volunteered to stand guard until Jo and Ron get here. They'll stay in shifts for as long as it takes. Dougie, too, in case someone saw him with her."

"Guess I can't argue with that." He reached back for his bag without letting go of Parker, unzipped a side pocket, and brought out the familiar plastic box. "Y'all have your earbuds on you?"

"I've got mine and Nate's wearing his," said Eliot, fishing around in his shirt pocket. "Don't know about the others."

"I have spares." Hardison fumbled in his suit jacket with his left hand and brought out something that looked like a Blackberry on steroids. He thumbed the screen for a second. "Nate's is the only one active right now."

Eliot stuck his in the usual ear, but paused before pressing the little tab. "Where is he?"

"He's in the building . . . cafeteria, maybe." Hardison frowned. "Where's Sophie? Where's _Dougie_? Jo's gonna kill us if anything happens—"

"Sophie took him down to the ER. He's been walking around with busted ribs and some serious contusions."

Hardison stared. "They dropped him, too? I thought—"

"No. Parker did. Kid got between her and the pavement—on purpose. He absorbed a lot of the impact."

Hardison's eyes widened. He looked down at Parker and touched her cheek, his fingers moving to tuck a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. His voice was low. "I owe him."

"We all do." Eliot clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm gonna go out in the hall for a while. If anyone can convince her to open her eyes, it'll be you. But leave your earbud off—I don't need to hear any of it."

Hardison offered a smile, the first since he'd arrived. "Thanks, man. Wait." He picked up his handheld, tapped the screen a few times, and handed it over. "I found some info you might want to see. I'll go deeper later, but it's a start."

Eliot pocketed the doorstops on his way out; he wasn't planning to move away from the door—and he knew Hardison wasn't planning to move away from Parker.

He turned on his earbud. "Nate?"

"_Yeah. I take it Hardison's arrived?"_

"He's with Parker now—thought I'd give 'em some privacy."

He could almost see Nate sitting up. "_She's awake?"_

_"_Not yet," he said. "You got a plan?"

"_Not yet." _There was a pause. _"Ugh. The coffee here is like roofing tar."_

Mike's voice broke in. "_Ya want another refill?"_

_"Yeah. Thanks."_

"Hardison gave me some stuff he dug up. You want it?"

"_Got it already. Take a look, let me know what you think."_

Eliot leaned against the wall and took a look at the souped-up minicomputer. He might not know his way around the 'Net like a hacker, but he'd picked up a few things over the years—like how to download apps on his own damn phone to spare himself the eye rolls over iPity and Angry Birds—and brought up Hardison's research with no trouble.

Silk Tie's real name matched the one on his ID: Darrin Victor. A lot of specialists didn't bother with aliases—the business ran on rep and recognition—but even the ghosts were known by style. Victor had the skills, but Eliot hadn't heard anything about him before today. So he wasn't freelance.

Eliot scrolled through more. Born in Hawaii, raised in LA, decent grades, a sealed juvie record—until Hardison had the time—and an unfinished pre-law degree from UC Berkeley. Based in Virginia the last few years, got his Massachusetts driver's license three weeks ago—the address was somewhere near Cambridge.

New in town, not a hitter-for-hire . . . A scout?

Hardison hadn't traced Victor's boss was, yet, but Eliot knew he would. And then—

He glanced down the hall to see Sophie leading Dougie out of the elevator. The kid was doing the morning-after prizefighter shuffle and from his groggy expression was more than half out of it from pain or meds, or both. They were going to have to move Parker into a double room. "Nate, we need—"

_"Sorry," _said Nate. "_That seat's taken." _

"_You Ford?"_ said an unfamiliar male voice.

_"Who are you?"_

_"Get up," _said the voice. "_We're leaving."_

_"Are we? Why?"_

_"Because we've got Sophie Devereaux. And if you want her back in one piece—"_

"That's a lie," said Eliot, as Dougie and Sophie reached them. "Sophie's here with me, Nate. Dougie, too." He wrenched the door open and herded them through. "We're in Parker's room." He bent to shove the doorstops in place and gave them a kick for good measure.

_"You have proof?" _said Nate.

_"I don't need proof," _said the man._ "I have this."_

_"I've been shot before," _said Nate. _"At least this time I'll be in a hospital. I want to talk to Ms. Devereaux," _he added, in a deadly serious voice. "_Now."_

Hardison started to speak, but Eliot cut him off and tossed him the handheld. "Sophie, talk. Hardison, earbuds."

"Nate?" said Sophie, her voice revealing none of the worry on her face. "I'm with Eliot. I'm safe." She took an earbud from Hardison and tucked it into place. "We're all safe."

"_Nice bluff,"_ said Nate, _"for an amateur."_

_"Get up."_

_"Not yet," _said Nate, as if he wasn't particularly interested. "_I want you to deliver a message and you need to be conscious for that."_

_"Get _up_."_

_"Don't interrupt. Tell your boss it was a ballsy idea, but it backfired. My team is still alive, and now he—or she—has our _full _attention. He—or she—can ask Damien Moreau how much fun that is."_

_"You have no _idea _who you're messing with."_

_"Yes, well, there seems to be a lot of that going around. Run along."_

_"This is your last warning. Get moving or I'll shoot that pretty nurse over there and drag you with me as a hostage."_

Nate sighed. _"All right, have it your way. You can deliver the message when you wake up. Just don't spill my coffee."_

_"What the hell are you—" _Eliot heard the distinctive sound of flesh hitting flesh.

_"Oh, hey, buddy, you okay?" _said Mike. "_Hey! This guy's in trouble! Anyone know CPR?"_

Eliot's earbud rang with a chorus of muffled shouts and the scrape of chairs and tables. As they waited for it to die down, he and Sophie took the opportunity to settle Dougie in the chair. Hardison held out an earbud and Dougie took it, raising his hand to his ear as if the pea-sized object weighed fifty pounds. Sophie raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.

"_Here's yer coffee,_" said Mike. "_They were outta creamer."_

Nate spluttered. "_Ugh. You get his wallet?"_

_"Do I look like a pickpocket to you? And you're welcome, by the way."_

_"Sorry. Thank you—for the coffee and the save. Hardison, I want this guy's name and insurance company the minute he's admitted."_

"On it," said Hardison, staring at the small screen.

_"We'll be right up."_

_"Sir?"_ said a female voice. "_Did you see what happened to this man before he fell?"_

_"Sorry," _said Nate. _"I didn't see a thing."_

"_Me neither," _said Mike.

"_But _you're _the one who called for help," _said the woman.

"_Ah, right. I mean, I didn't see much. He just keeled over," _said Mike.

"_Did he clutch his chest or his arm? Was he pale or sweating?"_

_"I don't know—I was sort of behind him . . ." _Mike's voice faded away and the background noise changed.

"_Looks like I'll_ _be right up,"_ said Nate.

"We'll be here," said Eliot. "But we can't stay, Nate. We need to get gone."

"_I know._ _This isn't revenge—this is pre-emptive. Someone wants to stop us before we start."_

"Start what?"

"_That's what we have to find out. Won't be easy—we have to assume they know our faces."_

"Do they know about all of us? Or even all about us?" asked Sophie. "They might have used my name, but I wasn't attacked and neither was Nate until just now. Were you, Hardison?"

"Not directly," he muttered, moving back to the bed.

_"That might only mean that we didn't give them the same opportunity as Parker and Eliot. None of us was home or going through our usual routines," _said Nate.

"And now you can't go back," said Eliot. "None of us can. Might be some nasty surprises waiting."

"Right. Don't want to go through another exploding apartment." Sophie shuddered. "Or a funeral."

_"None of us do,"_ said Nate, followed by the signature knock on the door.

Eliot went to let him in.

"What about Parker's warehouse?" said Hardison. "The place is like a fortress—plenty of room and a state of the art security system."

"_Too risky_," said Nate, before Eliot could. "_They've been following us for at least two weeks. They probably know about it."_

_"_Maybe not." said Dougie in a voice so quiet that Eliot might have missed it without the help of his earbud. "She's been staying at Hardison's since he left."

"She has?" asked Hardison.

"But I thought that comic con thingie was for this weekend," said Sophie.

"I left over two weeks ago," said Hardison. "None of y'all noticed I was gone? Seriously? I visited my Nana first. She holds a kind of foster kid reunion every year. Parker's been staying at my place?"

"Yeah," said Dougie. "So they could think she lives there."

"Guess we're having a sleepover at Parker's house," said Nate. "Anyone know the security codes?"

"I think I can figure them out," said Sophie, with a smile. "Are you sure we can't pick up a few things at our various hiding places?"

"Only if you haven't been there in the last month," said Nate.

"Oh. But I've been keeping my go-bag behind the bar. Surely—"

"You'll have to do without it."

"Do _without_ it? Are you _mad_? I have two pairs of Manolo Blahniks in there!" Sophie frowned. "Maybe Anna could do a drop off?"

A thought struck Eliot and he went to Dougie, who seemed about to fall asleep. "Wasn't Parker staying with you while your parents were gone?" he asked.

"Just since Friday. She told Mom and Dad she'd—" Dougie's eyes snapped open. "Oh, _crap_!" He grabbed for his phone, then clutched his ribs with a choked cry.

"Sit tight," said Eliot. "I'll call 'em. There's time—they won't reach town until morning, even if your Dad's driving. There's a crib and stuff at The Gym, right?"

Dougie nodded.

"Good. Don't sweat it, kid." He took his phone and went to a quiet corner where he couldn't hear Nate and Sophie arguing over the importance of high heels to team morale.

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><p><strong>More?<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**I am so late with this, and once again, I'm so sorry. I'm doing edits on another project that not only has a deadline, but is frankly kicking my rear right now . . .**

**Thanks for the reviews and all the alerts_—_and the concern about my health. I'm fine, just sleep deprived and a little overwhelmed. **

**But I'll try to do better.**

**Here's Jo!**

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><p>Jo pounded shave-and-a-haircut loud enough to hurt her hand. And then did it again.<p>

Mike, dressed in a set of scrubs, opened the door. His bright hair was combed flat and his cheer was about half of what it usually was. "Hiya, Jo," he said, in a quiet voice.

"You're supposed to wait until I ID myself," she said, at the same volume.

He gave her a look. "You did." He let her in, and shut the door, bending to shove something into place. She didn't notice what it was—the two sleeping figures took all of her attention.

Dougie lay on a steel and vinyl couch that matched the ones Jo had seen in the visitor's waiting area by the elevators. It wouldn't surprise her if it had been appropriated from there; the team could have easily found a hospital cot somewhere, but Spencer and Mike both preferred firm support when they were recovering from rib injuries, and the backrest would help Dougie—never a heavy sleeper—stay on his side so he could breathe better.

She took in a deep breath herself and stifled the urge to brush his hair out of his eyes and kiss his forehead—or shake him for getting hurt and scaring her half to death when she was three states away. But from what Spencer, Sophie, Hardison, and Mike had each said in separate phone calls, the more time he spent unconscious, the better.

Jo turned to the bed and instantly regretted her choice of words. Seeing the still figure was like a punch to the heart—Parker should be perched on top of the crash cart, swinging her legs and eating something crunchy, not tucked under a sheet with a needle in her arm. "Any change?"

"None. They're gonna do an EEG in a couple hours, just to check." Mike came up beside her. "I keep hoping she's faking it."

"Spencer would kill her." But he wouldn't, not if it meant she was going to be around to bug the hell out of him. She touched the small hand. "Parker, it's Jo. I'm going to stay with you and Dougie, so Mike can get some shuteye. You going home?" she asked.

"Not 'til this is over," said Mike. "Thought I'd bunk in a staff lounge or something." He flipped the badge clipped to his shirt. "Hardison set us up as private nurses assigned to Alice White. Ron too—couldn't find scrubs to fit him, though, so he gets a lab coat."

"Don't worry—he's staying with Southie." It hurt to leave them, but it would hurt worse if they led the bad guys to The Gym. One kid was already in danger—they weren't risking the other one. Spencer figured the place was safe enough—his silent partnership couldn't be traced, thanks to Hardison, so at the most the bad guys might think he was a regular. And the security there was state of the art. "It's safer that way."

"'Swhy I'm staying—Maya's got the shelters to worry about and we've both got Cody." Mike yawned. "Go change so I can fall down, okay?"

"Can I have a quick shower, first? I've been in a car for eleven hours."

"Please do." He handed her the scrubs and a bag from the hospital gift shop. "Hey, I thought Columbus was thirteen hours away."

"It is." She looked in the bag and saw travel-sized deodorant and toothpaste, a small hairbrush, a toothbrush . . . and a tube of lipstick in the only shade she ever bothered to wear. Leave it to Sophie. "Ron got a speeding ticket outside Albany."

"_Ron_ did."

"Yeah."

"So how many'd you get?"

She headed for the bathroom. "None worth mentioning."

"Wait, did you say _none_ or _nine_?_"_

She shut the door on him.

Fifteen minutes later—lipstickless—she came out to find Dougie awake and sitting upright. He was pale with the effort, but stood when he saw her. "Mom!"

She wanted to grab him in a hug, but instead let him lean on her and put her hands gently on his shoulders. "Next time you want to miss track practice, fake a cough, okay?" She took advantage of his limited mobility and kissed the top of his head.

He sighed, and if there were a few tears in it, she'd never tell—and Mike was pretending interest in the EKG machine. "I'll remember that," he mumbled. "You and Dad mad at me?"

"For getting hurt? No. For not telling us yourself? Oh, yeah."

"Thought so. Am I grounded?"

"You kind of grounded yourself," she said. "We'll discuss it after you can touch your toes. How are you holding up?" she asked, meaning more than his ribs.

Another sigh. "They tried to kill Parker, Mom. And Spencer. And they tried to kidnap Nate last night."

Jo shot a glance at Mike who nodded and chopped an invisible neck before polishing his fist on his shirt. "I know," she said, rubbing Dougie's back. "I know. But this isn't the first time they've been targeted. They'll be fine."

"Parker isn't," he said, raising his changeable blue eyes to hers. They were cold gray now. "I want them dead."

Jo sensed a teachable moment, though under the circumstances, she wasn't sure which lesson was appropriate. . . _Do as I say and not as I do?_ Because she wanted them dead, too.

No . . . that wasn't quite true.

"We don't need to kill them, Dougie," she said, finally. "Nate and Spencer and Sophie and Hardison will make them _pay_. And that can be a lot worse."

He dropped his eyes. "But what if it _isn't_ worse?" he whispered. "What if Parker doesn't . . ."

She thought about what she'd been told—and hadn't been told in so many words—about the job in San Lonrenzo.

"Then Spencer will take care of it," she said. "Personally."

He stared at her, then nodded. He grimaced. "Ow."

"Where are your painkillers?"

Mike held up a pill bottle and shook it. "C'mon, kid," he said, stifling another yawn and bending down to remove two rubber door stops. "I'll buy you breakfast. No meds on an empty stomach. Nurses should be making their rounds in half an hour," he told Jo. "Better hide these before they show up. They're sticklers for rules and regs."

Jo nodded. "Do I get an earbud?"

"Oh, right." He went to the wheeled table and brought back a bud and a hospital badge with her driver's license photo on it.

"You've got one, too?"

He tapped an ear. "Yeah. It's on standby, but Hardison will sound the alarm if you need me. But try not to need me for a couple hours, okay?" he asked, holding the door for Dougie.

"I'll do my best." Jo waited until the door swung shut and shoved in the door stops. Then she pushed the tiny blue tab, stuck her earbud in and clipped on her badge. "Hardison? You there?"

_"Always. Damn, girl, how many speeding tickets you rack up this time?"_

She answered him tone for tone. "Don't you already know?"

_"Been busy."_ There was a pause. _"Hey . . . I know . . . I know you just got there, but . . ."_

"Mike says there's no change. But that means she's not worse." She decided not to mention the EEG.

_"Yeah. Yeah, I know. Listen—you're gonna get a delivery from John Parker of Yoyodyne Propulsion Systems. Open it for her, okay?"_

"Of course I will." She smoothed back the covers and tucked a strand of blond hair behind a small ear. "Is Parker wearing an earbud?"

_"Yeah. I thought . . . See, they say that people in a . . . in a, um . . ." _He took a breath. "_They say unconscious people can hear what goes on around them, and I didn't want her to be, you know, alone. I mean, you and Mike are there, and Dougie, but—"_

"You're talking to her." Jo felt her eyes fill and told herself to knock it off.

_"Every chance I get."_

_"He was up all night, muttering,"_ said Spencer's voice, but not as if he resented it. _"Give us some privacy, wouldja? And no listening through Parker's earbud."_

_"A'ight, a'ight. Hear you later, Jo. Keep . . . Keep me posted."_

"I'll take good care of her, Hardison."

_"I know. Thanks."_

_"Hang on, Jo," _said Spencer. "_You'd think Parker's place would have a hiding place or ten."_

Jo waited, keeping an eye on the clock. She didn't want to have to explain to the real hospital staff why she'd secured the door.

_"That should do it," _said Spencer. His voice echoed, as if he'd moved into a smaller room—she'd never been to Parker's secret lair, so she didn't know. It seemed impolite to ask in front of Parker. _"Tough trip?"_

"Only because the phone kept ringing with more and more happy news," she said. "But we plugged in Southie's favorite bedtime CD about three hours in and she barely made a peep the rest of the way, even with Ron singing along."

Actually, mother and daughter had both been out by the third soothing song, and had slept to guitar notes and the voices of their two favorite men all the way to Massachusetts.

_"She still likes it?"_ Jo could almost see him duck his head. His music was the only thing he was modest about—maybe because it meant more to him than he was willing to admit.

"Like it? She won't settle down without it. We've already stashed multiple copies everywhere and uploaded the songs to every electronic device we own, except for the microwave. And Ron made Hardison swear he'll keep the master stashed somewhere safe until she leaves for college. You know," she added, not for the first time, "you could make a _fortune_ with it."

_"Maybe after I retire,"_ Spencer said, though she could tell he was pleased. _"That one's just for her."_

"You aren't getting mushy on me, are you?"

_"Not hardly. How is she?"_

Jo knew he didn't mean Southie. "Mike says they're doing an EEG in a couple hours."

He swore.

"It's just a precaution," she said, hoping she wasn't lying. "Stop beating yourself up. It's not your fault_—_

_"The hell it—" _He sighed. _"Sorry. I know you're right, but it still feels wrong. You know?"_

"My son sustained four broken ribs and deep tissue damage while I was out of town trying not to tell my mother-in-law to put a sock in it."

That got a brief chuckle of him. _"Right. Listen, someone tried to get to Nate last night in the cafeteria."_

"Dougie told me. Mike took care of it?"

_"Yeah, but it's just a matter of time before they figure out where Parker is—and Dougie too. If that happens, you gotta get them out no matter what."_

"Where do we go?"

He gave her three possibilities and they discussed the pros and cons of each and all the escape routes. _"You got all that?"_

"Think so. Do you know any more about this Darren Victor guy?" She pulled out her phone and took a look at the photo he'd sent her.

_"He's good and he can improvise, but he's maybe a little overtrained and overconfident. And he'll be hurting pretty bad."_

"Good. Maybe he won't pay us a visit before we can move Parker."

_"Maybe. But he lost face twice yesterday. If it was me, I'd want to make sure personally. And he knows Parker's not gonna put up much of a fight."_

"But he doesn't know about Mike and me."

_"No."_

Someone knocked—a regular knock, one-two-three—on the door. "Hang on, Spencer."

Jo moved to the door. She grasped the handle and kicked out the stops, careful to plant her near foot to stop any attempts to burst in. She opened the door four inches. "Yes?"

"Candystriper!" said a happy young voice. "I have a package for Ms. White!"

Jo opened the door cautiously, but saw only a teenager in a striped smock holding a large box. "Who is it from?" asked Jo in a whisper.

The teenager looked at the label. "John Parker from . . . " She frowned. "Yoyodyne Propulsion Systems? Is that some kind of joke?"

"Probably." Jo took the package—it was surprisingly light—and smiled. "Thank you."

The candystriper shrugged and smiled back. "You're welcome."

"_What's going on?"_

"Hardison sent Parker something."

"_What, flowers?"_

"No. A package. UPS mailing box—with a handwritten label."

_"Handwritten?" _Jo heard a door slam back. "_Damn it, Hardison! Did you call for a UPS pick-up _here_? Do you _want_ these people to track us down?" _Hardison said something, but it was too faint to make out. "_It better damn well be, or I'm gonna tie you in a knot and mail you to freakin' Iceland." _

Jo secured the door and brought the box to the couch. She pulled the strip and opened it.

"Oh," she said, feeling the tears gather again. "Oh, Hardison."

"_What?" _said Spencer, still shouting. "_What's so important he had to risk our lives?"_

Jo lifted it out and hugged it to her before turning to the hospital bed and tucking it against Parker's shoulder, wrapping the limp arm around it and letting one long ear brush a pale cheek.

_"Jo?"_

"It's Bunny," she said, when she could. "He sent Parker her bunny."

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><p><strong>I know I don't deserve it for the late update, but please review—they keep me going!<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**And we're back. Sorry. ****I hope you'll forgive me for the long delay . . . **

**At this point, I can't promise it won't happen again—life, right?—but I've never left a story unfinished and I'm not starting now. **

**So please stay tuned!**

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><p>Nate and Sophie had come running while Eliot was shouting, but seemed more concerned that he'd stopped.<p>

"Eliot?" asked Nate. "What's going on?"

"Hardison . . ." He stared at the hacker, who stared back, wary but unrepentant. "Hardison sent Parker that bunny of hers."

Nate frowned "How did you—?"

He pointed to his ear. "Jo."

The three of them glanced at the huge bed in the middle of the warehouse floor. By silent agreement, no one had used it last night—they'd made do with air mattresses and sleeping bags—and no one had noticed the stuffed animal was missing.

Eliot told himself there was no reason to feel guilty about that. It wasn't easy to spot white on white, especially when nothing moved. And he wasn't about to apologize for yelling.

Sophie brushed at her eyes. "Hardison, that's so . . . You sent her the one thing . . ." She went to him and kissed his cheek, murmuring something in his ear that made him smile briefly before swiveling his chair to face Parker's computer.

"Good thought, Hardison," said Nate. He cleared his throat. "Anything on the guy Mike dropped last night?"

"_I've got to go_," said Jo. "T_he nurses are supposed to be here soon. Keep me posted. And don't be too hard on him, Spencer—he's hurting, too."_

Hardison's fingers flew over the keyboard for a moment. "Scott Falk. Forty-one years old, blood type B-positive, not an organ donor, admitted for a possible myocardial infarction—that's hospital lingo for an expensive heart attack," he added. "Works as a 'tax consultant,' employed and insured by the Nagel Corporation." He leaned back in his seat. "Which, far as I can tell, is an answering machine in an empty room in Cambridge."

"Find out who's paying the rent on that room," said Nate.

"Way ahead of you. Building's owned by the Aldershott Company, a subsidiary of MacklinCorp , which is owned by the Remingford Group, etcetera, etcetera, and one more etcetera until we get to Granger LLC . . . which is owned lock, stock, and smoking barrel by the Weston Family Foundation, which is headed . . . " He hit a key. "By one Patricia Weston."

"Patricia Weston?" asked Sophie, staring at the image of the expensively-dressed old lady on the screen. "The Patricia Weston?"

"Who's Patricia Weston?" asked Nate.

"Who is . . ?" Sophie shook her head. "She's only the queen of philanthropic fundraisers in Boston!"

"Her Autumn Gala keeps half the shelters and food pantries in Massachusetts open during the winter," said Eliot.

Sophie nodded. "And she must be nearly ninety years old—look at her. She can't possibly be involved."

"Maybe," said Nate. "But stranger things have happened—"

"That's for damn sure," said Eliot.

"—so let's keep an open mind. Someone between the Aldershott Company and the Weston Family Foundation wants us out of their hair. Since we aren't actually in their hair . . . we aren't, right?"

Hardison shook his head. "We—meaning we as individual members of the criminal classes and we as in, you know, _us_—never touched the Foundation or any of their subsidiaries. I think. There's a ton of 'em and y'all don't tell me everything."

Nate tapped his chin. "Interesting. Map out as many subsidiaries as you can—local ones, first. When is the Autumn Gala?"

"The last weekend of October," said Sophie.

"And they start prepping it . . . ?"

"The day after the last one," she said. "It's only three months away, Nate. Everything from the décor and theme to the catering will be set in stone by now."

"Really."

"Yes, really, barring accidents." Her eyes widened. "Nate, _no_. It's for charity."

"Charity begins at home," he said in a thoughtful voice.

"It _is_ home, Nate," said Eliot. "Maya's shelters depend on that fundraiser. So do a lot of the places Jo used to go for a decent meal when she was on the streets." He knew Jo and Maya were worried about keeping the domestic abuse shelters going. The tanking economy meant less money and more victims—a lot of people liked to take their money frustrations out on their families.

"State cut their funding to nothing last year," said Hardison. "They lose the Weston money, they close. Even with that money, it's gonna be tight—the Gala isn't bringing in what it was five years ago. Guess even millionaires are feeling the economic crunch."

Eliot folded his arms. "So unless you're planning on using what's left of your assets to make up the difference, we ain't gonna risk that. Not even to take these people down."

"Find another way, Nate," said Sophie.

Nate blinked at them. "Don't worry—we won't stop the Gala, just . . . disrupt things a little along the way. And while we're at it, maybe we can figure out how to improve the take. Okay? Okay. Now, does Mrs. Weston come up with the theme and so on herself?"

"That's what event planners are for," said Sophie. "It was UltraEvents last year. . . but she never uses the same ones twice in a row and they did a Pumpkin Disco thing that frankly would have knocked them out of the running, anyway."

"Occasions to Remember," said Hardison.

"Ooo, they're very good," said Sophie. "They did the wedding for the Governors niece a few years ago. Very classy."

"I'm glad you approve—you'll start Monday as liaison to Mrs. Weston from Occasions—and vice versa."

But Nate," she said. "We don't know who knows what we look like."

"True," he said. "But remember that time in Cairo? You did the thing with the, ah—"

"That wasn't Cairo," she said. "It was Marrakesh. And believe me, it was a one-off."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure—it absolutely ruined my favorite pair of—"

"No, about Marrakesh."

"Nathan Ford, only you could mistake Marrakesh for _Cairo_ . . . No, wait a minute . . . Was I after Cleopatra's cup, or her hair combs?"

He raised his eyebrows. "You don't remember?"

Eliot stepped up to Hardison as their voices rose. "Listen," he said quietly, "You did a good thing, but you did it the wrong way." The younger man started to speak, and Eliot clamped down on his shoulder. "How do you think Parker would take it, if the three of us were hurt because of her bunny?"

Hardison froze.

"So the next time you want to send her a care package, you run it by me first, and we'll find a way—without compromising our location. You got me?"

Hardison nodded.

Eliot let go. "Good."

Hardison rubbed his shoulder and glanced at Nate and Sophie, whose argument had just jumped continents . "You notice how they always end up in Paris, shooting each other?"

"City of Love," said Eliot. "One of these days, they'll stop dancing around."

"Hope it's soon, 'cause this is getting repetitive. And loud."

"They'd better hold off until we get out of these close quarters," said Eliot. "Don't know about you, but some things should remain a mystery."

Hardison made a face. "Yeah, that would be kind of—"

The computer shrilled. Hardison dove for the keyboard, fingers flying. "Jo? Jo!"

Her breathless voice came through the speakers. "_I'm a little . . .busy right now, Hardison. Get down_!" she shouted.

"Parker's EKG went off!" shouted Hardison. "Is she—what's going on?"

"_That was me_—" There was a thud and a crash. "_Back up would be nice right about—no, you don't!"_ There was another crash.

Hardison jabbed a key. "Mike! _Mike_! Get to Parker's room! Jo's got company!"

Mike's voice said a rude word over the speakers. "_On my way_."

"_I wasn't expecting you,"_ said a familiar male voice.

"_Good," _said Jo, sounding out of breath. "_Wish I could say the same, Mr. Victor."_

"_You know who I am?"_

"_I know what you are," _she said.

"_That's unfortunate."_

"_You're telling me," _she said—then gave a strangled choking cry.

Sophie clutched Nate's arm.

"_And you'll tell me,"_ said Victor. "_Everything you know. Now stay down like a good girl while I take care of business." _

"Jo?" said Hardison.

Eliot closed his eyes, his fists clenched so hard he felt the skin on his palms break. There was nothing he could do—his worst nightmare.

Then . . . "_The _hell_ I will, you son of a bi—"_

Her voice cut off.

"Jo's earbud is offline," said Hardison.

"Mike," said Eliot, through his teeth.

"_Working on it," _said Mike, with a sharp grunt. "_Door . . .ungh! Won't . . . open." _

"Hardison," said Nate.

"I can amplify Parker's earbud mike, but Jo won't know—"

"_What on earth happened in here?"_ said a strange voice.

Jo's voice came through. "_That man came in, knocked me down and went after my patient."_

Eliot exhaled .

"Thank God," said Sophie, sagging in Nate's arms.

"_You're gonna have a shiner," _said Mike. "_You okay?"_

"_Fine," _said Jo._ "Dougie? Are you okay?"_

"_Under here. Ow!" _

"_I got ya,"_ said Mike.

"_What happened to him?"_ said a male voice. "_These look like contact burns_."

"_Maybe the crash cart?" _said Jo, with just the right amount of doubt. "_I tripped him, and he fell into it."_

Eliot grinned. Jo couldn't lie worth a damn, but she was an expert at telling the selective truth.

_"It zapped him by _itself_?"_

"_I don't know. It was on. The EKG went off, so I prepped it—"_

"_Jeez, how high did you set it?"_

"High enough to short out her earbud," said Hardison. "Must've got a jolt, too."

"_What is this?" _said Mike. "_Look at her—you think she attacked him? We gotta get this guy out of here before he wakes up."_

"_He's right. You two, take him to the ER, and inform security," _said a female voice that brooked no nonsense. "_Let's get this young man back into bed."_

_"He's not the patient,_ said Jo. "_My patient is Alice White . . . " _There was a pause.

"_Well_?" asked the voice. _"Where is she?"_

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><p><strong>Please review if you're still with me . . . <strong>


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